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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23788456">Save That Heart for Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarbranch/pseuds/cedarbranch'>cedarbranch</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, M/M, Trans Gerard Keay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:02:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,574</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23788456</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarbranch/pseuds/cedarbranch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerry has just filled up his mug with coffee when it hits him. It’s a faint but sharp pain, zinging through his left wrist. He exhales a puff of laughter. That’s the third time this week. Whoever his soulmate is, they’re having a rough time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gerard Keay/Michael, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>576</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Save That Heart for Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>title from <a href="https://youtu.be/Cux2qJjApGA">past lives</a> by borns!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gerry has just filled up his mug with coffee when it hits him. It’s a faint but sharp pain, zinging through his left wrist. He exhales a puff of laughter. That’s the third time this week. Whoever his soulmate is, they’re having a rough time.</p>
<p>He leaves his coffee on the kitchen counter and returns to his bedroom, where a mirror waits hanging on the wall. He strips off his shirt and approaches it. </p>
<p>This is a daily ritual of his. He runs his fingers lightly across his skin, checking for any new bruises or sore spots. He doesn’t feel anything new, but it’s only a matter of time—he’s long since learned that his soulmate is hopelessly accident-prone, and it won’t be long before a new faint red mark fades into his skin. </p>
<p>As for now, though, the only marks he has are his own. There’s a cut on his arm that’s still healing from his last run-in with a Slaughter avatar, and a bruise on his neck from where she’d tried to pin him down. A few burn scars. His top surgery scars, of course—Gerry’s always wondered what that must have felt like for his soulmate, if it hurt, or if the anesthesia numbed it for the both of them.  </p>
<p>He hopes it was numb. His soulmate seems to injure themselves often enough; they don’t need any extra pain from Gerry. </p>
<p>It really should worry him, the frequency of the marks that appear on his skin. He’d been concerned about abuse for a while, but the marks are small and inconspicuous enough that it doesn’t seem likely. Gerry knows what it feels like to be hit, and the pain that flares through his elbow when his soulmate has presumably bumped into something is nothing like that. </p>
<p>Honestly, the litany of small pains is the most comforting thing Gerry could hope for. All his soulmate’s injuries are the mundane sort; the mark of a particularly clumsy person, maybe, but nothing more. Whoever they are, they don’t know about the powers lurking in the shadows.  They’re innocent, and in all likelihood, that means they’re safe. Each bruise is a treasured reminder of what Gerry’s fighting for. </p>
<p>He presses a small kiss to his wrist, right over the aching spot, and goes back to get his coffee.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“Have you ever heard of a company called Outer Bay Shipping?” Gerry asks.</p>
<p>Gertrude looks up sharply. “Why do you ask?”</p>
<p>“Came up while I was digging for a Leitner,” says Gerry, swinging his feet idly off the edge of the table. He turns a few pages of his book—it hasn’t yielded anything useful so far, so he sets it aside. “They took some shipments from the antiques dealer I’m talking to. Some freaky stuff, if I understood correctly. Sounded like it might’ve been entity-related. Should I be worried about it?”</p>
<p>“Quite possibly. They’re connected to the People’s Church of the Divine Host.”</p>
<p>Gerry scowls. Great. Just what he needs: another cult. “So do you—”</p>
<p>He’s cut off by a crashing noise and a yelp from the next room. Gerry looks to the door.</p>
<p>“I’m okay!” says a muffled voice. Michael. Of course.</p>
<p>“There he goes again,” Gertrude murmurs. “Do go and check on him, make sure he hasn’t broken anything.”</p>
<p>Gerry laughs. “Yeah. Can’t have the staff dying off before anything supernatural even gets to them, can we now?” He hops off the table and goes into the next room. There are papers and manila folders scattered all over the floor. Michael is on his hands and knees, gathering them into a box. Gerry clears his throat, and Michael startles.</p>
<p>“Oh! Hello,” he says. “Sorry about that, I-I just—this is a lot heavier than I was expecting, is all.” He smiles sheepishly. Gerry has to admit it’s adorable, but then again, Michael usually is. His hair is falling into his face, flyaway curls come undone from his loose ponytail, and his cheeks have gone slightly pink. </p>
<p>“Do you want some help?” Gerry asks. </p>
<p>“I… I don’t want to disturb you and Gertrude, I know you were in a meeting,” Michael says, ducking his head. “Please don’t feel obligated, I can clear it up on my own.”</p>
<p>“No, it’s fine.” Gerry crouches down and starts to gather up some of the papers. “You’re not hurt, are you?”</p>
<p>Michael smiles. “No, no. Kind of surprising, actually… knowing my luck, this thing should’ve fallen right on my head.” He taps the box.</p>
<p>“Well, let’s just be glad it didn’t.” Gerry reaches over to drop a file into it, right as Michael does the same. Their hands brush ever so slightly. The moment of contact is brief, but it sends a jolt of something inexplicable down Gerry’s spine. He quickly pulls his hand back. Michael does the same, his cheeks reddening.</p>
<p>“S-sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to—sorry, nevermind.”</p>
<p>Gerry just nods and keeps working, making sure not to touch Michael again. Once the files are all collected, he says a quick goodbye and flees the room.</p>
<p>Gerry gives himself a mental kick as he retreats to Gertrude’s office. There’s no use going and dwelling on how cute the office assistant is—Gerry can’t do relationships, and especially not with someone like Michael, who still has no idea what Gertrude is really like. And then there’s the matter of soulmates to consider, but given that Gerry might never meet his, that feels less relevant than Michael’s ignorance.</p>
<p>The point is, he tells himself firmly, he does not get to develop a crush on Michael Shelley.</p>
<p>So he puts the matter aside, and goes to talk with Gertrude about another shitty cult.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Gerry stares up at the ceiling. The room is pitch black. Outside his window, he can hear the faint rush of cars going by. Those who have to keep moving will always do so, no matter the time. </p>
<p>Maybe his soulmate is out there, driving through the night. Running to Tesco’s to grab a late snack, or working a night shift. </p>
<p>Probably not, though. The bond has been quiet today, with no echoes of pain coming through to Gerry. He likes to imagine his soulmate curled up asleep, far from harm. If he could, he’d take their hand, rub his thumb over their palm as a gentle comfort. </p>
<p>But he can’t. The bond doesn’t carry sensations like that. What a load of bullshit. It shouldn’t be limited to pain, not when the bond is supposed to be about love—that’s the whole appeal in having a soulmate. The knowledge that there’s someone out there who will always love you, and if you can only find each other, you’ll be happier than you’ve ever been. </p>
<p>Or at least, that’s how it’s supposed to be. Sometimes people don’t find each other. Most do, but there are others who go their entire lives without ever knowing who they’re bound to. All that pain, and it doesn’t ever bring them anything in return. </p>
<p>Sometimes, it seems like life really is one giant cosmic joke. </p>
<p>Gerry’s heard about people who hurt themselves on purpose—nothing severe, mind you, just a pinch or so—in order to get through to their soulmate. He’s thought about it, of course. Pretty much everyone has. But at the end of the day, he’s not willing to pinch himself in morse code or whatever the fuck people do when his soulmate might not even notice it.   </p>
<p>He wonders a lot, though. It’s hard not to. Who in the world could be matched up to someone like him? </p>
<p>Gerry rolls over onto his side. </p>
<p>If he’s honest with himself, it wouldn’t be good for him to meet his soulmate. They’d be in danger from the moment anything connected them to Gerry. Then he’d have to explain everything, all the fourteen fears and the things he’s done to keep them at bay, and if his soulmate had any dreams of romance and fairy tale endings, well. They’d probably turn to nightmares right then and there. </p>
<p>But the selfish part of him still wants to know who they are. </p>
<p>Or, maybe not the selfish part. Maybe just the part that drew him to the Institute—the part that wants to <em>know</em> things, even when he really shouldn’t.  </p>
<p>He’d rather think of it as selfishness. His soulmate is the one thing that’s truly his, untouched by any of the powers that are so determined to fuck up his life. And that’s exactly why they can never meet.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Gerry fucking hates the People’s Church. They’re not quite as nasty as the Lightless Flame, at least not in his experience, but their followers are still a load of sick bastards. </p>
<p>This one in particular is a real piece of work.</p>
<p>Her hands have a vice grip on Gerry’s arms. Even as he struggles, she won’t let go. So he does the logical thing—he knees her in the crotch as hard as he can. Why people think that only works on cis guys, he’ll never know. She doubles over, and Gerry knees her again, in the stomach this time. She stumbles backward. </p>
<p>He lunges for her. Before he can make contact, she lifts her leg and gives him a vicious kick in the chest. It knocks the wind out of him. Briefly breathless, he staggers back a few steps. It gives her the time to pounce. Her fist catches him straight in the jaw, and another solid kick knocks him to the ground.</p>
<p>She plants her boot on his neck, and panic shoots through Gerry like lightning.</p>
<p>There’s a <em>crack</em> of gunfire.</p>
<p>The cultist sways to the side, eyes widening with shock, then collapses to the ground. Gerry waits with bated breath. She doesn’t move, and finally, he pushes himself into a sitting position. He rolls his shoulder experimentally, and it twinges with pain from where it hit the pavement. </p>
<p>“You couldn’t have done that earlier?” Gerry asks, looking up at Gertrude.</p>
<p>About twenty feet away, Gertrude lowers her gun. “You would have preferred me to shoot while she was standing right next to you?” she asks.</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t play that game,” Gerry says dismissively. “You’re a good enough shot, you could have done it.” </p>
<p>Beside him, blood slowly seeps from beneath the cultist’s body, forming a pool of red around her. Not for the first time, Gerry wonders if somewhere, a second life is slipping away. If avatars can even have soulmates, once they cross the line from human to monster. </p>
<p>“Come on, then. Let’s get out of here before we attract too much attention,” says Gertrude. Gerry nods and gets to his feet. </p>
<p>They make for the nearest tube station, walking quickly and quietly. They’re not exactly inconspicuous, the old granny and the goth, but no one stops them, and they make it back to the Institute with no trouble. As they head into Gertrude’s office, Gerry gingerly touches a hand to his face. It comes away spotted with blood. </p>
<p>He sends an apology out into the void. </p>
<p>He must be the absolute worst person to be bonded to. He gets seriously injured every few months or so, sometimes badly enough to need hospital visits. He’ll probably die like this, sometime in the relatively near future. He sure as hell won’t live out an average lifespan as long as he’s hunting Leitners. He can only hope that his soulmate will be one of the lucky ones who doesn’t die when their bond breaks. </p>
<p>It’s not much of a comfort. Being bonded to Gerry is a stroke of bad luck in and of itself.</p>
<p>“Hey, Gertrude?” he finds himself asking. “Do you think they still have soulmates?” He doesn’t need to specify who he’s referring to.</p>
<p>Gertrude sighs, reaching into her desk for her medical kit. “I don’t see any point in dwelling on it,” she says.</p>
<p>She wouldn’t, would she. She’s past the point of truly caring about the collateral damage of their work—that’s all it is to her, just an occupational hazard. Gerry tries his best to think the same way. But still, it’s hard, not knowing if taking a monster’s life comes with the price of an innocent one.</p>
<p>“Try not to worry about anyone else’s pain,” says Gertrude. “You’re the one bleeding. Here.” She hands over a roll of bandages, and Gerry sighs. He hears her loud and clear. </p>
<p>But still, he bandages his own wounds carefully, with gentle touches, so they don’t hurt any worse. It’s the least he can do.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>It’s not that Gerry doesn’t like Gertrude. He likes her well enough—she’s sharp-witted and intelligent, and she knows how to get a job done well. But that’s not enough for him to trust her. There’s a lot he doesn’t know about her, and a lot she doesn’t know about him, as well. It’s easier, sometimes, when she’s not around. </p>
<p>Plus, it means he can have free reign of the archives without her poking her nose in. </p>
<p>Gerry unrolls a scroll of paper and smooths it out over the table. Normally, he’d be a bit more discreet about taking things from Gertrude’s desk, but she’s all the way off in the middle of nowhere, Russia. She won’t know a thing. Besides, he needs this blueprint; it’s an older version of the one he’d managed to track down on his own, with the original floor plan intact. He traces along the southern wall of the building, searching for the corridor he knows should be— </p>
<p>His hand spasms. </p>
<p>A swooning vertigo crashes over him, and his knees go weak. He grabs onto the table to keep himself standing. Tingling shocks zip up and down his spine. His limbs go numb, at once icy and burning. Something’s wrong. Something is very, very wrong. He’s never felt anything like this before, never in all his time hunting Leitners and monsters, but there’s a note of familiarity to it.  Even as it charges through him, it’s distant.</p>
<p>Gerry is certain: this pain is not his own, and whatever his soulmate is going through, it’s hurting them much, <em>much</em> more. </p>
<p>His vision swims, the edges melting into a swirl of neon color. He can’t feel his legs. It barely registers when they crumple beneath him and he hits the ground. His mind is fuzzy. It’s the strangest mix of pain and rapture as the world twists around him.</p>
<p>He can hear someone screaming.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Gerry wakes up in a hospital bed. </p>
<p>He’s not surprised, honestly. It’s hardly the first time. A machine beeps steadily in the background. There’s an odd pressure in his arm—he lifts it, and yep, there’s the IV. As he turns his arm over to inspect it, his heart jolts.</p>
<p>His tattoos. His tattoos are <em>different</em>.</p>
<p>He pulls his other arm out from under the blanket and inspects the backs of his hands. The eyes on his knuckles are barely recognizable; they’re just swirls of ink, bleeding out across his fingers. He swears under his breath. </p>
<p>“Oh, so you’re awake,” says Gertrude’s voice. Gerry jumps.</p>
<p>“Gertrude,” he says. “How… I thought you were in Russia?”</p>
<p>Gertrude turns a page in her book and delicately adjusts her glasses. “I was,” she says. “But that was rather a long time ago.”</p>
<p>Gerry’s heart sinks. </p>
<p>“How long have I been out?” he says hoarsely. “What happened?”</p>
<p>“I believe it’ll have been two weeks tomorrow,” says Gertrude. “We weren’t sure if you would wake up again.”</p>
<p>Gerry looks back at his hands. His tattoos are irredeemably fucked up, but otherwise, there doesn’t seem to be a scratch on him. “What happened,” he says flatly. </p>
<p>“Are you sure you want to know?” Gertrude asks.</p>
<p>No. No, he isn’t. Because he’s pretty sure he already knows.</p>
<p>His soulmate is dead.</p>
<p>What else could it have been? Gerry’s perfectly healthy, and he’s never been prone to fainting spells, especially not ones like that. That was no normal vertigo. It wasn’t like anything he could put a name to, and the only kind of pain that he hasn’t managed to get a taste of is… well, the kind that ends it all. </p>
<p>A lump rises in Gerry’s throat. He turns from Gertrude, scrubbing at his eyes. “Well, better get a nurse in here or something,” he says gruffly. “I expect they’ll want to do tests.”</p>
<p>Gertrude gets up and does as he asks. Sure enough, the nurse who comes back in with her immediately has Gerry sit up, and starts questioning him within an inch of his life.</p>
<p>Does anything in his medical history point to a normal explanation for this? No. Has he ever met his soulmate? No. Was his soulmate a drug user? No, how would he even know that. Does he want to speak to a counselor? Not at the moment, no, but that might change. </p>
<p>He responds to all the questions with the same dull monotone. He can’t muster up anything more. He’s lucky to be alive, but how is he supposed to feel lucky when he can <em>feel</em> the hollow space eating away at him, like a phantom limb? How is he supposed to get up and walk about the world as normal, knowing half of him has been ripped away, and he’ll never even know what their name was?</p>
<p>Gerry always expected that <em>he</em> would be the one to die first. </p>
<p>There’s a nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that maybe, just maybe, there’s a reason it turned out like this. Maybe some avatar figured out who his soulmate was before he did. Something about the entire experience felt so wrong—maybe it wasn’t a natural death, explained away by a drug overdose or whatever else could have caused that burst of unreality. </p>
<p>It <em>still</em> feels wrong. He can’t put his finger on it, but he feels different. There’s always a faint ringing of static in his ears, and sometimes, his limbs all feel out of place, like his mind is trapped in a container that fits too tightly. </p>
<p>He tries to tell Gertrude about it, once, when they’re leaving the hospital. Her mouth presses into a thin line, and all she says is, “Try not to think about it too much.”</p>
<p>She’s right, of course. She always had been. She’d warned him about soulmates, and the dangers of dwelling on them. But Gerry had figured it couldn’t hurt to <em>think</em> about it. The world could let him have one good thing, even if it was only dreaming. </p>
<p>Apparently, he was wrong.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Gerry holds his knife close to his side, sticking to the wall as he makes his way down the narrow hallway. He hasn’t seen anyone since he snuck into the building, but this is the Dark he’s dealing with; he can’t rely only on sight.</p>
<p>His breath is too loud in his ears. He can almost imagine it echoing from the stone walls. He steps carefully, making sure his boots don’t scuff too loudly against the dusty floor. This place is a total creepshow—he can handle a few cultists, but it’s that ancient, primordial fear that’s getting him now, the shadows shifting in a way that makes his heart pound. He’ll be fine if it’s just someone coming after him, but there’s always a chance it could be something more. </p>
<p>It’s the not knowing that gets to him.</p>
<p>He holds out the blueprint in front of him, scanning along the pathways. It’s got to be here somewhere. Just a few more turns, and there should be a room with a prize hidden away inside it—a Leitner, ripe for the burning.</p>
<p>He creeps down the hall, and there it is: the door. He carefully turns the handle and slips inside.</p>
<p>As soon as he looks up, Gerry knows he’s made a grave mistake. </p>
<p>This isn’t the church. This isn’t—this isn’t anywhere. The walls are colored in neon yellows and greens, with paintings and door handles scattered about where they shouldn’t be, stuck like pins into the landscape. The sheer <em>wrongness</em> of it burns into his mind, ringing in his ears, the feedback rising to a screech, and then</p>
<p>it stops. </p>
<p>Gerry can <em>feel</em> the hallway laid out around him. It’s a disjointed awareness, a second viewpoint lining the edges of his mind. He grabs the wall. He can feel it beneath his hand, and he can feel his hand touching it. It’s like looking into a maze of mirrors, with visions of himself refracted all around, but it’s <em>all</em> of him looking back, seeing and sensing and not-quite-knowing. He’s read about the Spiral before—that’s what this is, it couldn’t be anything else—but nothing could have prepared him to step inside it. It doesn’t make sense, and yet… it does.</p>
<p>He knows where to go.</p>
<p>Gerry starts walking down the hall. It splits into branching pathways as he goes, and he follows his gut, taking whichever path calls out to him. It leads him through fractals and kaleidoscopic corridors, and with every turn, he’s more certain that he’s going the right way.</p>
<p>Just as he arrives at this conclusion, he sees it. A shape in the mirror, almost human, but far too twisted. </p>
<p>“What are you doing,” says a voice. Its static frequency is mildly disapproving. </p>
<p>Gerry turns around. A figure stands before him, with long, bony hands and curling blond hair that floats as if gravity doesn’t apply to it—which, of course, it doesn’t. </p>
<p>“What are you doing?” it repeats. It sounds almost… familiar?</p>
<p>“I’m just walking,” Gerry says, unsure.</p>
<p>“Yes.” The creature is closer now, enough that Gerry can make out its eyes—they’re bright and shifting, dancing with color.  “You’ve chosen a path, haven’t you?”</p>
<p>Gerry nods. His head is starting to ache, but beyond the dull pound between his temples, there’s something more pressing weighing at him. This thing is so familiar, if he could only place it—</p>
<p>“What makes you so certain you’re going the right way?” it asks, tilting its head slightly, and something clicks. </p>
<p>Gerry stares. His mind pulls him in two directions—one, where the creature in front of him bends with the curve of reality, and another, where it looks at him with a curious expression, one that Gerry knows all too well. Through the distortion, he can see the outline of the person it should be.  </p>
<p>“Michael?” he says, aghast. </p>
<p>The thing-that-is-not-quite-Michael laughs. The curl of his smile seems to drown out everything else in Gerry’s field of vision, drawing him in like a whirlpool. “Yes,” says Michael. “But not the one you knew.”</p>
<p>Yes, that much is obvious. </p>
<p>Gerry can barely form words, shock striking him dumb. He has so many questions, so many reeling trains of thought, but it doesn’t seem wise to voice any of them.</p>
<p>“What… happened to you?” he asks, cautious, testing the waters. He doesn’t really need an answer; he can guess. If Michael had simply been taken by the Spiral, Gertrude would’ve been upfront about it. That’s just an occupational hazard for people like them. She’d have no reason to hide it from Gerry, so it must have been something more. He tightens his grip on his knife. </p>
<p>Yes, he can guess what must have happened. </p>
<p>“You like to ask questions,” Michael observes. “To <em>know</em>. But knowledge has no meaning here, Assistant. Your eyes have no power.” All at once, he’s closer, right in front of Gerry, and he runs a finger down the mangled eye tattoos on Gerry’s hands. It feels like a needlepoint scraping against his skin. Gerry snatches his hand back.</p>
<p>“What do you mean, assistant?” he says uneasily. “I don’t work for the Institute, I-I don’t work for Gertrude.”</p>
<p>“Yes, you do,” says Michael. He lifts his finger and presses it, bladelike, to Gerry’s throat. Gerry swallows hard. “And that is why I want to know. How do you know where you’re going?”</p>
<p>“I… I don’t know what you mean,” Gerry says. “I don’t even know how I got here, I just opened a door and—”</p>
<p>“I didn’t ask how you got here,” says Michael, lowering his voice. “I asked how you <em>know</em>.”</p>
<p>“I don’t!” Gerry protests. “I’m just trying to get out of this goddamn place so I can get that Leitner!”</p>
<p>Michael hums. “A Leitner,” it says thoughtfully. “Yes, that is rather characteristic of you. Going to destroy it, I suppose?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Gerry whispers, hyperconscious of the razor-sharpness at his throat. “That’s all. I just want it gone, so it can’t hurt anyone else.”</p>
<p>“I know,” Michael says, smiling faintly. “You don’t want the Dark to win.”</p>
<p>Gerry inhales deeply. He won’t beg. Asking for a monster’s mercy is inviting death, and he’s not that desperate yet. But he has to try, otherwise months of work will be down the drain, and that goddamn book will just keep adding to its kill count. “Michael,” he says. “You know I don’t take sides in any of this. I just need to find that book, and then—”</p>
<p>“Quiet.” Michael’s finger presses harder, and Gerry winces as pain blooms sharp across his neck. Michael frowns. </p>
<p>He draws his hand back, and Gerry relaxes, only for Michael to stab a finger deep into his shoulder. Gerry cries out, clutching at the wound. Michael flinches, a glitching motion that propels him back. “What are you doing?” he demands, a squeal of distortion and static undercutting his words. </p>
<p>“What am <em>I</em> doing?” Gerry snarls, pressing on his shoulder. Blood seeps through his shirt. “What the hell was that for?”</p>
<p>Michael just stares at him. He reaches forward again. Gerry tries to cover his chest and any organs he doesn’t particularly want speared, but Michael just swats his hand away. Slowly and deliberately, he claws down the side of Gerry’s face.</p>
<p>As he does so, a red line streaks down his own cheek like a tear. </p>
<p>“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding,” Gerry breathes.</p>
<p>Michael jerks his hand back, his eyes wide and flashing. “N-no, that can’t be right,” he stammers. His form breaks into static scribbles before morphing back again. “Th-that’s, no, you can’t—”</p>
<p>“You’re my fucking <em>soulmate?</em>” Gerry says, his voice shrill even to his own ears.</p>
<p>“No,” Michael says fiercely. The static has drained away from his voice. “<em>Michael</em> was. Not me, I can’t be.”</p>
<p>“Well, clearly you are,” says Gerry. He feels vaguely sick. Of course. Of course, this explains everything—his soulmate hadn’t <em>died</em>, that wasn’t what Gerry had felt that night. The Spiral had taken him. </p>
<p>And, in its own way, it had taken Gerry, too. </p>
<p>They stare at each other. Michael’s outline snaps and flickers. </p>
<p>“Well, I guess this means you aren’t going to kill me,” Gerry says shakily. </p>
<p>Michael reaches out and opens a door. “Go,” he says. </p>
<p>“What—”</p>
<p>“<em>Go,</em>” he says. Gerry hesitates, and Michael grabs him by the jacket and all but throws him through the door.</p>
<p>It slams shut behind him, and Gerry falls back against it, his heart pounding.</p>
<p><em>Fuck</em>.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Gerry can feel it, now. The Spiral’s influence is subtle—he’d always been able to explain it away as side effects of a broken soul bond, before, but he knows better now. The static in his ears never really leaves, and sometimes, he can almost feel a door beside him, like it would be there, if he only reached out for it. He never does.</p>
<p>Eventually, they start showing up on their own. Gerry pointedly ignores them. He doesn’t want them, quite frankly. He doesn’t want… this. It’s like a slap in the face. If only he’d known sooner, maybe he could’ve done something to stop it, maybe… </p>
<p>Michael was sweet. Gerry had liked him, more than he should have, in all honesty. He could’ve loved him, if he’d been given the chance. The bond should’ve been broken when Michael was taken. It would’ve been easier to just let Gerry mourn.</p>
<p>But the bond doesn’t lie. If it’s still intact, then that means whatever the case, <em>that</em> Michael is still his. And <em>that’s</em> something Gerry really doesn’t want to examine.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The doors keep coming. Gerry wakes up in the morning, and there’s one right where his bedroom door should be, sunshine yellow and deceptively inviting. He scowls and gives it a kick. “Go away,” he says. </p>
<p>Instead of vanishing, the door cracks open. Gerry takes a step back.</p>
<p>Michael pokes his head through. “You’re ignoring me,” he says, looking surly. “I’m trying to talk to you, you know.”</p>
<p>“There’s nothing to talk about,” Gerry says shortly.</p>
<p>“I think there is.”</p>
<p>“Well, you’re wrong.”</p>
<p>“There is no such thing as wrong.”</p>
<p>“Will you get out of my room?” Gerry snaps. “I don’t want to talk to you!”</p>
<p>Michael glares back at him. “You think <em>I</em> want to talk to <em>you?</em>” he asks. “This is not my burden, Assistant. I am not Michael. I did not ask for you. But there is nothing to do about it now.”</p>
<p>Gerry goes back to his bed and sits down, crossing his legs. “Well?” he says flatly. “What do you want, then? You can’t kill me, and I’m sure as hell not killing myself, so why are you here? If you don’t want anything to do with me, then just stay away.”</p>
<p>Michael steps inside. The door vanishes behind him. He looks out of place in the perfectly normal setting of Gerry’s bedroom, the neon fractals of his hair standing out sharply against the mundanity of everything else. “If this is how things are, you need to stop getting hurt,” he says. </p>
<p>Gerry blinks. “What?”</p>
<p>“You get hurt too often,” Michael says. There’s an edge to his voice that tingles at the base of Gerard’s spine. “It’s… not nice.” </p>
<p>Gerry sighs. This is just typical. “Sorry my injuries are so bloody inconvenient for you,” he says. “Gets in the way of killing people, doesn’t it?”</p>
<p>“That’s not…” Michael sighs. “Gerard,” he says, enunciating carefully as static rises around his voice. “You have to be more careful.” He makes a face; it blurs into something broken and intersecting. </p>
<p>“Why?” asks Gerry.</p>
<p>“It doesn’t matter,” Michael says sharply. Gerard can’t quite tell where his face is anymore; it’s lost to a twisting mass of spiral shapes. “You have to. I-I’ll make you.”</p>
<p>Gerry furrows his brow. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Michael’s voice is harder to make out now; Gerry thinks he might not even really be talking anymore, but the meaning comes through in a sharp haze of frustration all the same. Michael’s hands twist into what could never truly be called fists. </p>
<p>Gerry’s ears pop, and paradoxes collide into a single, resounding note of truth.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Gerry breathes. “Oh, okay.” </p>
<p>“What?” Michael says defensively.</p>
<p>“You still feel the bond as much as I do,” says Gerry, almost wonderstruck. “There’s still some of him left in you, isn’t there? God, you must <em>hate</em> that.” Michael scowls. “How much is it?”</p>
<p>Michael flares into a spike of color and pattern. “You’re wrong,” he says, but Gerry can feel the panic behind it. He’s locked onto it now; the frequency that connects them. </p>
<p>“There’s no such thing as wrong,” he reminds Michael. “It still matters to you, doesn’t it? You just don’t want it to.” He pushes himself to his feet, and Michael takes a step back. </p>
<p>“Stop it,” he hisses. “I’ll—I’ll—”</p>
<p>“Hurt me? No, I don’t think so,” Gerry says, grinning. “That’s why you came. You <em>care</em> about me.” </p>
<p>“Yes,” Michael says, and it splits him in half. The pieces mend back together in an instant, but in the wrong order. He laughs, frenzied, and the sound doubles over itself as he vibrates with kinetic energy made visible. “N-no, I don’t know, I-I don’t—”</p>
<p>“Hush.” Gerry takes his hand. It’s cold and strangely solid, like the blunt end of a knife. Gerry’s anger has melted away; in its place, a mild curiosity has risen up. This isn’t what he had expected. Even as he abstracts out of reality, Michael seems so much more human like this. Maybe there’s still a language the two of them can speak.</p>
<p>Gerry places his hand on Michael’s face, and all at once, Michael <em>has</em> a face again. Interesting. </p>
<p>Maybe Gerry could just…</p>
<p>He leans up on his tip-toes and kisses the place where he decides Michael’s mouth should be.</p>
<p>A shock jolts through his entire being. For a moment, he can feel it all; the dizzying pull of infinite dimensions, Michael’s lips soft against his, the floor beneath them, the gentle brush of his own hand. It echoes like the pains that have haunted him his entire life, and they sing sweetly into his mind, two borrowed halves falling into harmony. The world fades out, and the humming thrill of completion washes over him, them, the two of them, together.</p>
<p>Gerry breaks away to stare at Michael. Michael stares back, just as enraptured as Gerry feels.</p>
<p>“Woah,” says Gerry. Michael nods, blinking dazedly. </p>
<p>This is still… it’s wrong. It’s confusing, and painful, and what the fuck has Gerry gotten himself into, he can’t just <em>accept</em> this, can he? His soulmate can’t be a <em>monster</em>.</p>
<p>But he is. The answer doesn’t change just because it’s not the one Gerry used to dream about.</p>
<p>For some reason, he can’t bring himself to doubt it any longer. It feels too right for that. </p>
<p>“Can you do that again?” Michael whispers. </p>
<p>Gerry does.</p>
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